Unfashionably Dead

Chapter Five

I can't bring myself to enter the apartment through the broken window. It's just a tad too macabre for my typically refined taste. I hover in front of it, staring at the jagged glass, wondering how I fell through it. A soft breeze blows me toward the stucco building and carries me to Lanie's bedroom before I realize what has happened. I let out a sigh, relieved I didn't land in the living room where my demise took place.

A soft glow emanates from the bathroom. Lanie wouldn't leave the light on, and I wouldn't do so intentionally, even if it might piss her off. That probably rules out the cockroach or spider theory, but it also lends credence to someone else being here.

A clicking noise, like the step of a high heel, yanks me out of my reverie. I freeze, listening for more sounds, but none comes. Convinced it's my overactive imagination, I inch forward through the tidy bedroom to the hallway. I turn to the right and see a crack of light filtering through the front door of the apartment. The door closes.

It's too soon for Lanie, Grant, and jerkwad to have arrived at the apartment, or at least, it should be. It feels like only seconds have passed since I was outside, but maybe ghosts are in some sort of loop where time doesn't exist. Maybe it took me longer than I think to enter the apartment. Regardless, I'm going with my gut. It's not like anyone is going to kill me for investigating.

I leap through Lanie's stainless steel refrigerator, trying to distract myself from the moldy Chicken Alfredo as it passes through my body. I pass through the wall to the hallway. A look of sheer repulsion replaces the look of disgust on my face.

A manicured hand smoothes the back of a wine red dress then slides a key into the lock of Lanie's door. The lock clicks into place. Margaret takes the key and stuffs it inside her bra.

"Thank god that's over," she whispers.

"What the hell are you doing?" I shout at her. I hover right behind her and try to smack her, push her, anything to make my presence known.

Shivering, Margaret reaches into her bra and withdraws a tissue. I snicker at the thought of Margaret stuffing her bra, but I've seen her enough times at the pool to know she doesn't need filler; her cup runneth over. Anyways, she just goes to the plastic surgeon and disappears for about a week.

Margaret wipes the doorknob and jumps as the elevator dings.

The doors slide open. Lanie steps out, followed by Grant and Adam. They all wear serious expressions, though Lanie's face mimics my own as she notices Margaret standing by her door.

Caught red-handed, Margaret fakes a sneeze and blows her nose into the tissue.

"What are you doing here?" Lanie says. Her voice cracks out of anger.

"I can't find my key. I was hoping you could call Adam so he could give me back the one I gave him." Her words are slurred, but she doesn't reek of alcohol. "I figured you wouldn't be far behind her. Help a girl out, Adampoo."

Just when I think Margaret can't be any more despicable, she rubs up against Adam but backs off as she seems to notice a much finer specimen standing on the other side of Lanie. "Ah, who's this," she says as Lanie begins to speak.

"You can't seriously think I would help you if you were drowning in your own blood." Lanie turns to Adam. "I just lost my best friend. If you've got that damn key, give it to her so I never have to talk to the witch again."

I'm proud of Lanie's restraint, though I doubt Grant views it as such. Lanie needs to keep her mouth closed, especially when it comes to Margaret.

"Shelly is dead?" Margaret asks, like she didn't steal the Blahniks off my cold, dead feet.

Did she really just call me Shelly? Yuck. How many times had we told her the pronunciation? Shell-Lean. Her botch of it was intentional. It always is with Margaret. She never had difficulty with my name when she needed me to water her plants or feed her fish while she was gallivanting across the globe.

I crane my neck to sneak a peek at her shoes. She's changed them; now she's wearing a pair of Jimmy Choos that match her dress a little more closely. I search for the duffle bag, but it's nowhere to be found. She probably dumped it in her apartment before she came to Lanie's.

"Her name was Cheline. Don't pretend you didn't know her." Lanie brushes past her, their shoulders coming into contact and Margaret knocked a little off balance as a result.

When she begins to fall, she steps on the hem of her dress. Her top slides downward until it catches on her red lace bra. Grant reaches for Margaret and steadies her before the dress can reveal more. His eyes linger for a split-second, but he quickly looks away.

Behind Lanie's back, Adam watches every move Margaret makes as she readjusts her dress. I don't understand how Lanie can be so blind when it comes to him.

"Are you going to give me my key?" Margaret says, the slur absent from her voice.

Adam takes his key ring from his blazer. He sorts through several keys until he finds one with pink fingernail polish dotted around the edge. I hope that Lanie is noting all the keys, three of which that represent his actual responsibilities. The rest are more likely keys to booty calls. He pries off the key then hands it to Margaret.

"Good riddance," he says as Margaret walks away.

"Let's go inside." Lanie takes a deep breath and we follow her into the apartment.